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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317056">misery loves company</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoulder_Devil/pseuds/Shoulder_Devil'>Shoulder_Devil</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Extra Treat, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Trick or Treat 2020, Trick or Treat: Trick, Whump, skin page, stranger!doll</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:20:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoulder_Devil/pseuds/Shoulder_Devil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"He is dazed yet struggling. Repentant but unforgiven. The Archivist never has a chance to get his bearings before the explosion rips through this false reality. Truth is restored but he is no longer there to see it.</p><p>And so, Jonathan Sims ended…"</p><p>The page slips from the doll’s hands to land softly at his feet. He makes no move to retrieve it, simply stares at his visitor with a blank expression. </p><p>“T- Tim? I… where am I? I don’t-” </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Trick or Treat Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>misery loves company</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts">liesmyth</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Music twisted and swirled around the Archivist as the ritual reached its peak. He couldn’t tell up from down, nor did he have any concept for what those words might mean in the riot of color and sound and motion and </em> <b> <em>fear</em> </b> <em> that surrounded him on all sides.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He thought- as much as he was capable of thinking this close to the Stranger- it would pull him apart. He was wrong. Even as forces he did not and would never understand pulled at his body and his mind and at his very concept of self-- he did not die.  </em>
</p><p><em> Through the chaos there was a pain and rage directed at the Archivist, white hot and coming from a single point. The words </em> <b> <em>What do you see? </em> </b> <em> and later, </em> <b> <em>What is in your hand?</em> </b> <em> leave his lips with a half remembered power ringing in the air. The effort drains him and before the Archivist can recover he is thrown away.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He is dazed yet struggling. Repentant but unforgiven. The Archivist never has a chance to get his bearings before the explosion rips through this false reality. Truth is restored but he is no longer there to see it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And so, Jonathan Sims ended… </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The page slips from the doll’s hands to land softly at his feet. He makes no move to retrieve it, simply stares at his visitor with a blank expression. </p><p>“T- Tim? I… where am I? I don’t-” </p><p>The doll doesn’t remember much from his life before- flashes mostly. They come to him when the music fades enough to let him think. One thing he does remember though is Jon. And how much he hates him. </p><p>There is a level of satisfaction in seeing Jon like this. He knows that as much as he is suffering in his new existence (when the music swells and screams until that is all he is and all he will ever be and he just wants it to <b> <em>STOP </em> </b>but there’s nothing he can do because as much as he hates it, hates what he has become, he loves it too, loves the music and hates the quiet and the memories that he longs for the music to drown it all out again) at least he isn’t the only one. </p><p>Not anymore.</p><p>“Always slow on the uptake,” the doll spits. “Just as pathetic in death as you were in life.” </p><p>“Death?” Jon shakes his head. Everything feels so far away and it <em>hurts</em> but he isn’t dead, is he? “That can’t be right. No, I’m not-” </p><p>“Close enough you might as well be. Should be.” <em>If</em> <em>you were human enough. </em>“Close enough that it worked.” </p><p>The doll watches Jon’s face as he finally catches sight of the scrap of leather at his feet. The realization of what he is hits him like a brick (an explosion) to the face. Bitter laughter escapes the doll’s too wide lips as Jon clutches his head. He whispers a litany of denials to an uncaring god who abandoned him long ago. </p><p>Jon stares down at, or rather through, his own hands disbelief and mounting horror. He can't ignore the dull throb in the center of his back. The pain of an absence. A living wound <em> pulling </em> at him, keeping him trapped in this painful half state even as he aches for a body he no longer has. Is this how Gerry Keay felt after Gertrude bound him to the book? </p><p>This has to be a dream. Only he can move and speak. There is no great watcher above him. He isn’t bound to impassively watch another’s torment.</p><p>The fear he feels is entirely his own. </p><p>“You’re lucky, you know.” Tim’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. "I was awake when they skinned me. I had to <em> feel </em> it. Every drawn out moment. Every stitch as they sewed my wounds back together just so they could turn around and peel it all off of me. You’re <em> lucky.”  </em></p><p>For the first time Jon really looks at the man before him. Delicate stitching peeks from behind Tim’s ear running a line down the side of his neck then dipping below his shirt. Now that he knows what he’s looking for Jon can see signs of ‘repair’ all over Tim’s exposed skin. He is suddenly very aware there has to be so much more that he can’t see.</p><p>Tim's eyes are wrong. Jon didn’t notice before in the low light but his eyes… </p><p>“Tim... what happened to you?” </p><p>The doll laughs, throws his head back and practically bellows at the question. Nothing of the Archivist’s compulsion laces through his voice. That part <em> survived </em> the explosion, wasn’t bound to the dead flesh stolen from a hospital room with a silent heart monitor. It woke up and walked away not knowing or not caring that Jonathan Sims is long dead. </p><p>“<em>Tim</em>,” Jon pleads, not even sure what he’s asking anymore. </p><p>“Isn’t it obvious, Jon? I got my revenge.” Wrong as they are, his eyes still reflect pain. “And then... then they took theirs.”</p><p>“So the circus? What we did,” he swallows down the phantom bile clawing at his throat. “It was all for nothing?” </p><p>Music swells in his head making it difficult to think. He looks to Jon for any sign he can hear it too and finds nothing. The circus’s parting gift is for him alone it would seem. “They’re gone,” he forces the words through gritted teeth. “I’m all that’s left of the circus now.” </p><p>“<em>You?</em>” </p><p>“They made me one of them and then I killed them all. It wasn’t hard, there wasn’t much left after...” He gestures to the ruins around them. </p><p>“You took your revenge back.”</p><p>The doll shakes his head. “It wasn’t revenge, it was mercy. This though,” he meets Jon’s eyes with a hard stare, “this is revenge.” </p><p>A fresh wave of fear washes over Jon. The dull ache in his back burns white hot as he tries to back away. “T- Tim, whatever it is you think you want…” </p><p>“Company, Jon. That’s all.” His voice is pleasant, calm. “I can’t die, the music won’t let me.” The doll’s smile borders on unhinged as he starts to sway in time with the music only he can hear. "No matter what I do it won't let me." </p><p>The thing that was once Timothy Stoker begins to dance. A halting, jerky motion so different from the easy grace Tim possessed in life. Jon’s protests are lost in a cry of pain as a sharp boot lands on his page, crushing into the only physical piece of him left. Agony courses through him, bringing Jon to his knees.</p><p>Tim’s broken laugh echoes through the rubble as he continues to dance. “Don’t you know? Misery<em> loves </em> company.”</p>
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